


Afghans and Mustard Packs

by weesta



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bruce is not a doctor, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Sick Character, Sickfic, Team Bonding, Team as Family, but he plays one in the Tower, homemade remedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-06
Updated: 2018-11-06
Packaged: 2019-08-19 13:23:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16535363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weesta/pseuds/weesta
Summary: Clint is sick and Bucky feels compelled to help.





	Afghans and Mustard Packs

**Author's Note:**

> Just a bit of mini-NaNoWriMo inspired fluff. The timeline is nebulous - somewhere in that space in my head after Steve and Sam brought Bucky back to the Tower and everyone shares the common room and, you know, GETS ALONG.

Bucky tried hard to stay away from Clint. He really did.  Maybe if Clint had just stayed in his own rooms and kept it private; maybe then.  But the archer was an overt presence in the common areas and exceedingly hard to ignore.

Clint wasn’t an attention seeker like Tony, calling out for acknowledgement; so settling in the common room was more about being in a safe place surrounded by people he trusted.  Or, the high temperature that wracked him with alternating chills and fever impaired his judgement. Bucky might’ve been able to live and let live if Clint had just huddled in the blankets Natasha kept throwing over him and tried to sleep off the fever in silent misery.  But he wasn’t silent; not by a long stretch.

Clint wheezed.

Bucky found himself strangely at odds – irritated, no... wound up... by the sound of air making a tortured passage through Clint’s lungs.  He had this notion that was nearly a compulsion that he should _do_ something, but he couldn’t pin down exactly what it was he needed to do.  Bruce was attentive and actually doing doctor things. Natasha tended the blankets. But the _wheezing_ …

Bucky prowled aimlessly, not able to do anything for Clint in the living room, not able to find anything productive to do anywhere else.  He hated how useless he felt because he knew there was something he should do, a job he should perform – a mission? – but the specifics of it eluded him. It was completely frustrating; nearly to the point where he wanted to start punching walls. Going down to the gym would have been a much better choice, but he literally could not leave; Clint was like a floundering ship sinking under the weight of the crap in his lungs while Bucky was a circling shark waiting for the inevitable to finally happen.

One of Bucky’s prowling circles brought him close to the kitchen.  Bruce was busy mixing something on the stove. Bucky assumed Bruce was making soup for Clint to eat later, until he got a whiff of the mixture in the pot. Bucky’s forward motion ceased and he froze as a memory overtook him; it was so complete that he lost the sense of everything else beyond the smell of the mustard and the sound of labored breathing from behind him.

There was no way to tell how long he stood motionless on the periphery of the kitchen; it couldn’t have been excessively long, Bruce and Natasha hadn’t called in reinforcements, though Bucky knew without looking that Natasha had her phone out and ready to go.  Bucky took a deep breath and shook himself free of his stasis. Normally he came out of these blackouts feeling anxious and angry as he fought against a fragment of programming that demanded his attention, but this time he came back with an understanding of something older, something from _before_ , and a purpose.

Bucky took another deep breath before he started walking straight into the kitchen. He approached Bruce who eyed him with concern.  Bucky felt a smile begin to form involuntarily. Bruce, surprised, smiled in return. Bucky held out his hands for the tray of supplies Bruce had assembled.  “I can…” Bucky paused and rephrased. “Can I…?” He shook his head as the words failed him. Bucky centered himself and looked over to make eye contact with Bruce.  “I got this.”

Bruce didn’t hesitate before handing him the tray. “Okay.”

Bucky turned and approached the couch, where Clint had holed up, with caution.  It wasn’t that he felt unsure in his decision to take on this job, but he knew how vulnerable he’d feel if he was in Clint’s position. It was fortunate that Natasha was already at Clint’s side – technically she was perched on the couch above him – and had roused him from semi-conscious to mostly conscious.

Clint watched Bucky through bleary eyes. He nodded in acknowledgement when Bucky sat on the coffee table facing him.  Bucky placed the tray on his lap but didn’t make a move to do anything immediately.

“What’s that?” Clint snaked his foot out from under the afghan and poked at the tray.  “I can tell it smells like crap and I can’t smell anything.” Clint barked out. Then he really started barking as his lungs protested that small output. The archer fought to push himself into a seated position and ended up leaning against Natasha’s legs for support.

Bucky waited until the spasm passed. Clint took a breath as deep as he could to steady himself, and then he groaned. He tipped his head back as he closed his eyes. Natasha swept as hand over his close-cropped hair in a soothing gesture.

A wave of nostalgia washed over Bucky.  It wasn’t like what had happened earlier; this feeling was warm, one he was accustomed to, one he didn’t have to fight against. The scene was so familiar though the players were different. He knew how it would end if he didn’t jump in before Clint fell back into a doze.

Bucky used his knee to bump Clint’s. “Hey, don’t go back to sleep,” Bucky admonished.

Clint made a grouchy face, but he did open his eyes to look at Bucky.

“I know this stuff stinks to high heaven, pal, but it’ll help you.” Bucky said as he gestured to the tray on his lap.  Clint looked skeptical.

“With all of modern medicine at our disposal why are we going with ancient remedies?” Clint nudged the tray again.

Bruce followed Bucky in from the kitchen. “Sometimes the old ways are the best,” the doctor offered.

Clint snorted in derision and immediately realized that was a bad idea as his muscles protested.

“I ain’t gonna make you do anything you don’t want,” Clint’s eyes snapped to Bucky’s as he was talking; and understanding passed between them.  Bucky kept his gaze. “But it’ll work…I remember with Stevie…”

Bucky could see that Clint was inclined to complain and do his best to ignore any treatment beyond “Give me some Tylenol and let me sleep it off”. And it wasn’t that Bucky didn’t have a ridiculous amount of experience dealing with cranky, stubborn patients who’d rather deflect attention from their own needs, and that was the key, wasn’t it?  

So Bucky put it out there, as plain as he could.  “Clint, I can’t listen to you fight to breathe.”

Clint didn’t look skeptical anymore; while his eyes were still glassy his face was thoughtful. And though his words were complaining his actions showed that he understood.

“Alright, let’s do this.”


End file.
